From a Cornish Window

Well, the discovery that I had forgotten two of my own books at first amused and then set me thinking. "Here you are," said I to myself, "a writer of sorts; and it's no use to pretend that you don't wish to be remembered for a while after you are dead and done with."

"Quite right," the other part of me assented cheerfully.

"Well, then," urged the inquisitor, "this is a bad look-out. If you had been born a Dumas--I am speaking of fecundity, if you please, and of nothing else--if you had been born a Dumas, and could rattle off a romance in a fortnight, you might be excused for not keeping tally of your productions. Pitiful, dilatory worker that you are, if you cannot remember them, how can you expect the world (good Heavens!) to take the trouble?"

"I suppose it won't," responded the other part of me, somewhat dashed; then, picking up its spirits again, "But, anyhow, I shall know where to lay the blame."

"On yourself?"

"Most assuredly not."

"Where